Triste (sad) in Sicily
Today our not-so-old neighbour, widower,
came to visit only because we invited
him and nailed down a day and time.
His son and daughter both live far away.
Zero grandchildren. No dog, cat or joy.
Rosita spoke to him in the local mix
of Sicilian/Italian that I don’t understand.
Over coffee and sweets I asked his age
in my very limited Italian and learned
he was a mere year older than me.
I somehow made a weak joke about
my willingness to listen to the wisdom
of one who had lived so much longer
than myself. We had a polite chuckle,
spoke of local issues like pigeons on rooves,
potholes on roads but we could see that
he was triste, still triste when he checked
the time, politely took his leave and
walked directly back to his large,
empty, echoing house. Neither of us
said anything more; we just held
each other before tidying the table.
Allan Lake, originally from Saskatoon, Canada, has lived in Vancouver, Cape Breton, Ibiza, Tasmania, Western Australia and Melbourne. His latest chapbook of poems, “My Photos of Sicily”, was published by Ginninderra Press. Such journals as The Hong Kong Review, Quadrant Mag, The American Writers Review, Tokyo Poetry Journal, The Antigonish Rev, New Philosopher and The Fabians Review have published his poems.
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